


Fool

by tangerine (arte)



Series: Amnesiac Hannibal Oneshots [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Crack, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal loses fifteen years of his memory. He's beyond embarassed with his future self. He has become a lovesick fool somewhere along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool

**Author's Note:**

> A shameless crack fic because my other fic was getting too heavy.

Hannibal is grateful that if he had to lose fifteen years of his memory, it had to be on Sunday. His broken phone also works as a blessing. No one is called to his side at the hospital. He'd rather not stumble into his acquaintances and explain his predicament to them. 

After persuading the stressed ER doctor that there is nothing more to be done about him, Hannibal is able to shrug on his coat and leave. He wonders when he'd started to wear three-pieces. He favors plain charcoal suits, not this rather attention grabbing mix of plaid and paisley. 

He opens his wallet in search of a hint, and finds out that he's a psychiatrist with his own office. He's pleased that he wouldn't have to deal with nosy doctors and residents. Knowing his meticulous filing habit, the office would be filled with rather useful insight. 

Hannibal takes a cab, reciting the address he found on the card. He's relieved to find out that his taste in buildings hadn't change much. He finds the correct key from his pocket and opens the door.

The office is painted with intimidating shade of dark red. and the light blue sofa at the corner sets off the color of the wall more vividly. Hannibal can only assume that he has gotten rather bored in twenty years. He wonders if any of his psychatrist colleagues had set him aside after seeing his office: "Hannibal, maybe you'd like more comforting colors for your walls?" He wonders if no one still suspects him after all this.

He walks toward the desk in the middle of the room, feeling like a king approaching his throne for the first time. It's meticulous as expected, with work files stacked on one side and his sketches on the other. He silently approves that there is a scalpel along with the pencils - a good excuse to keep a weapon close - and picks up one notebook on the pile. He checks the spine. Top priority, his code says. Intrigued, he starts reading. 

The subject's name is Will Graham, an FBI academy teacher who got pulled into the field because of his talent despite his unstable mental state. Thier meeting had occured when near fatal level of boredom drove his future self to consult for the FBI.

Hannibal flips the page, ready to be academically entertained for the next hour. He isn't ready when the acute sense of second hand embarrassment smashes over his head. The notes are so far away from professionalism that they have reached the level of being a personal diary.

_Will smells of fevered sweetness, like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked. It distresses me that Will is yet ready to be cured..._

_The only blind spot to Will's beautiful talent is that good things are rare to come for him. In his worry for me, Will had failed to catch that the stag statue had been deliberately tipped...._

_Will's walls are high. Contrary to Dr. du Morier's opinion, stepping back would only fester Will's isolation. He needs me to...._

Hannibal snaps the notebook shut, unable to go on. At this point, it seems entirely possible that he's a laughing stock of the community. His future self is a lovesick fool pushing fifty, pining after his not-really-patient, not even really aware of how lovesick he sounds. 

Hannibal fervently hopes that his future self had the decency to shut up about his love interest outside of his diary, which is the point where he remembers Dr. du Morier. He tries to calculate how much suspicion would fall on him if he were to dispose of her. 

Unfortunately, he doesn't get much time to perfect his plan as the door to his office abruptly opens without warning. Hannibal nearly jumps. An undignified behavior, but in his defence, he is still shaken by the fact that he had a secret diary/criminal evidence in his hand.

Thankfully, the man doesn't seem entirely lucid to be a witness. Hannibal is about to simply coax the man out and shut the door when he smells 'the fevered sweetness' under atrocious aftershave.

So this is his object of affection. 

Hannibal steps back, gaze critical. He admits that the man has a beautiful face, but not enough to deserve the purple description in the diary. Will Graham appears painfully mortal with his unkempt hair, bruised eyes and fear soaked shirt.

Hannibal takes one more step back when the man begins to blink rapidly, coming out of his trance.

"Will," Hannibal says, correctly assuming that his future self wouldn't have enough restraint to call his patient Mr. Graham. "Are you aware of where you are?"

Will rubs his eyes, looking confused, then groans loudly. "Shit, sorry."

Hannaibal watches half in awe as the man struts toward Hannibal's desk and throws himself down to the chair as if he belongs there. 

Rude, on top of everything. It's unbelievable that he'd become this whipped. 

Hannibal's heart almost skips when Will starts fiddling with the objects on the desk. He resists the urge to snatch the notes away from the man's reach. He resolves to wait him out. 

Finally, Will stops his fidgety exploration. "I saw a human zigsaw puzzle today, not a totem, but just- laid out on the floor," he sighs. "I guess my brain prefers minimalistic works."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Hannibal asks.

He's hooked.


End file.
